


Rider Series

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Curses, Death, Demons, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Fire, Fluff and Smut, Pieces of Eden, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6041071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of stories involving the Assassin's Creed ghost rider fandom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Curse

    “Malik!” Altair’s voice drifted through the halls of Masyaf. He had just recently returned from his travels to India and he had wonderful stories he wished to tell his old friend. “Malik.” He called as he walked the quiet halls, wondering where his friend could be.

 

    “Altair?” A friendly voice drifted over his shoulders. Altair spun around to see the familiar form in black robes. He looked tired and held an armful of scrolls. Quickly, Altair moved to help him carry the load.

 

    “Malik!” He smiled excitedly as he took the scrolls. Malik gave a nod of thanks then gestured forward towards his quarters.

 

    “How were your travels Altair?” Malik asked, his voice steady and amused at the assassin’s excitement. He could see Altair was brimming with energy, obviously full of stories he can’t wait to share with his oldest of friends.

 

    “They were plentiful. I met the assassin’s in India..” He explained, his eyes lighting up as he spoke the next words. “I have something I want to show you.” Malik chuckled in amusement when they reached his quarters. Altair laid the scrolls onto Malik’s desk then turned quickly to his friend.

 

    “What do you wish to show me?” Malik smiled at his friend, seeing how much like a child he was with a new toy. He watched as Altair pulled a satchel over his shoulders and sat it on the desk. Carefully he delved inside and pulled out a large object wrapped gently in fine cloth. Malik’s interest was piqued when he saw how slowly Altair moved with the object. He tilted his head to the side to peer beneath the cloth that was loosening.

 

    “The Templars in India were searching for this.” He explained. “In the ruins of a temple. One of the assassin’s there requested my help in killing them. When we succeeded they asked me to keep this relic, to study it.” Altair shifted it in his hands. “It is nothing like a Piece of Eden that I’ve ever seen.” He warned as he lifted the cloth to show the relic. It was a skull, made of what appeared to be white gold. Strange ruins were etched into it in a pattern that ran the expanse of it. It’s eyes held a peculiar gaze. Empty black gems placed inside the eye sockets. The longer he studied them the more they changed. Like coals filled with a wavering heat that sought to be rekindled. The gaze was mesmerizing. He could faintly hear Altair talking about the relic and the Templar but soon it became background noise.

  


    Altair held up the skull, explaining how the Templar had acted strangely when they ambushed him. How he appeared as if something was controlling his actions. The Templar had spoke of Innocent blood and justice. Talked of evil men and souls to be burned. It left Altair feeling odd and slightly conflicted. Reminded him of Solomon’s Temple. His curiosity into the relic is what helped persuade the assassin’s in India to allow him to study it further. Explaining how it would be safer in Masyaf. His voice trailed off when he realized Malik seemed to be acting funny. He inspected his friend’s sudden stillness. Altair noticed Malik’s gaze was fixed upon that of the skull.”Malik?” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, shaking it lightly.

 

    Malik didn’t seem phased in the least by Altair’s touch. “Malik?” He shook his shoulder a little rougher. Suddenly Malik’s eyes rose from the skull’s, fixating on Altair. It was a cold look. Empty and dark. It sent chills down Altair’s spine. It felt wrong. Like the person before him wasn’t even Malik anymore. Malik’s hand shot up and gripped Altair’s wrist. He felt nails digging into his flesh, breaking skin. Tendrils of blood ran down his arm and into his palm. Altair tried to pull away but Malik’s grip was too strong. “Malik!” He pleaded. “Let go of me.”

 

    “ _Innocent blood spilled._ ” The voice that came from Malik’s lips was inhuman. It didn’t sound like his brother. It was cold and jagged. It sounded like a voice one would hear from death itself. “ _Evil souls to be burned._ ”

 

    “Malik, cease this madness.” He tried to pull away once again but it was in vain.

 

    “ _You shall be the vessel of justice. Where men fail, you shall be their reckoning._ ” Malik pulled Altair’s hand over to the skull, placing his bloodied palm on top. The skull glowed to life, drinking up his blood. The ruins grew hotter and hotter until it felt like they were being seared into his flesh. He screamed out, the pain intense, like fire was shooting up his arm, burning through his bones, melting away his skin. He hadn’t realized when Malik had released his hold on him, but suddenly Altair found himself staring down at his hands. His fingers were bones cloaked in fire. He stumbled back, staring at his reflection in a basin of water near Malik’s bed. His face was nothing but bone. A skull cloaked in a black flame, a fire that didn’t burn his clothes.

 

    “Altair?” The voice was a whisper but all too familiar to the master assassin. He turned to see Malik, backed against a wall, staring with wide fearful eyes.

 

    “Malik?” To his surprise, his voice sounded the same. He looked down at himself then back at Malik. “The relic.” He muttered. “It did this.” He looked to Malik. “It possessed you.”

 

    Malik stepped forward, inspecting Altair’s strange appearance closer. He reached out to his friend to draw back his hood but Altair flinched away, fearful that the flames that cloaked his body would burn him. Malik shook his head. “It’s okay.” He reassured, drawing back Altair’s hood then placing a gentle hand against Altair’s cheek (bone). “They are warm, like your skin.” He explained to his friend. As he got closer, Altair felt his fears of hurting Malik dwindle. A sudden gasp slipped past Malik’s lips, causing Altair to tense, thinking he had hurt his friend. “Altair,” Malik smiled. “You’re human.” He pointed out.

 

    Altair raised his hands in front of himself and sure enough where burning bone had been was now flesh. He touched his face, his fingers gracing his scarred lip. He stared down at the skull, flinching as the cold voice echoed in the back of his mind. He brushed past Malik, wrapping the skull back up in the cloth, careful not to touch it and shoved it onto the bag once again, cursing himself for ever bringing it back to Masayf. He gave Malik an apologetic look, pulling the bag up against his chest. “Safety and peace, Altair.” Malik spoke softly as he watched Altair rush out of his room and into the halls of Masyaf.


	2. The Reawakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor rediscovers his Rider powers.

The memory was an unpleasant one. One Ratonhnhake’:ton had effectively locked away for a while. Long enough to deal with it, well parts of it. The part he dealt with the easiest was his mother’s death. Not to say her death was an easy one. It had taken Ratonhnhake’:ton a week to cope with the loss and he was allowed that time, even while the rest of the people worked on rebuilding the village. Removing the charred remains of the huts and repairing the walls all the while Ratonhnhake’:ton sits quietly on the outskirts of the village, alone and huddled up. His legs drawn up to his chest and his face buried in his arms as he watched the people in his village go about their work. He had tried to help but the women of the village scolded him for it and sent him away. 

 

They didn’t know that he noticed the fear in their eyes. The way they tense up around him. The way some of them flinch when he steps near. He hears the whispers that run through the village. He isn’t deaf nor is he blind. He notices the way they treat him like a monster. Maybe he is. He tried to reach out to his friend Kanen'tó:kon but his friend’s mother would intervene and hurry her child away, leaving Ratonhnhake’:ton feeling even lonelier than before. When night falls and everyone piles into the large hut to sleep, Ratonhnhake’:ton finds himself sitting the furthest from all the rest in the hut. He didn’t chose it on purpose, more like the others instinctively moved away from him whenever he neared. Shivering in the cold and feeling lonelier than ever, he curls in on himself and quietly cries himself to sleep. 

  
  


Years later, the unrest of the village had settled long ago as if everyone had forgotten about the day of the fire, or most of it. They all remember the flames and they remember the losses they suffered but they appear to have forgotten the worst of it. Possibly out of fear or they had somehow persuaded themselves that it was only an illusion caused by smoke inhalation and confusion. Over the past few years, Ratonhnhake’:ton had become an important part of the village, supplying them with meat and furs, the bravest of all the warriors and the most skilled of the hunters. He and his friend Kanen'tó:kon made hunting a daily routine, giving them both a chance to explore their surroundings and take to the trees, feeling as free as the eagle they watch soar above them. But all things must come to a close sooner or later. His carefree days had ended and he found himself on a mission to Davenport Homestead in search of the strange symbol he saw in his spirit journey. 

 

There on the homestead he was reminded of that terrible night when he lost his mother. Reminded of the monster the rest of his village feared. It was a day like any other. Achilles had him training downstairs, practicing his hand-to-hand skills on the dummy that was set in the center of the room. He had been working all day long, practicing the same technique over and over again but he kept messing up. His strikes didn’t seem right and his hand slipped when he’d bring the hidden blade into play. He was tired and his body ached but he was determined to get it right. He hadn’t heard Achilles enter the room and hadn’t noticed the older man standing off in the shadows of the stairs when his footing slipped and his hidden blade was deflected by the wood stand, causing him to cut his hand open. He hissed in a combination of pain and frustration. He had been training for days and he couldn’t get the technique right. It didn’t feel right. He felt like he would never get it at this rate. His footing was off, his balance was wavering as was his strength. 

 

He cradled his hand against his chest, his thought shifting back to a time back in the village. A time when he felt so hopeless. The day he had a run in with the white men outside his village. The day his mother died. He felt something snap inside him. Like the hinges on a door that hid away a terrible secret. A rush of emotions washed over him. Ripples of terror shuddering through him. Waves of helplessness crashing down. The chains of fear and loss latching on to him and pulling him further and further under. He felt this cold waves evaporate into an intense anger. Anger at the men who took his mother away. Anger at himself for being weak. for failing to be strong enough, failing to protect her. As his anger grew, so did the heat that enveloped him. 

 

Amidst it all, he could faintly hear a voice calling out to him. Calling a name. Calling _ his  _ name. He opened his eyes and looked around finding Achilles standing before him, guarded and uncertain. He watched every movement as if it was a snake coiled to strike. “Connor?” Achilles questioned, watching the young man before him. 

 

Connor looked down at himself and realized with horror that he was surrounded by fire. He raised his hands in front of him inspecting his boney hands. The flames that surrounded him were an angry orange, arcing away from him as if trying to burn the room around them. “Achilles.” Connor finally willed the words to his lips. “I-” His voice hitched, suddenly aware that his mentor was staring at him. The same way the rest of the village looked at him the day it all happened, the day he first became  _ this.  _ Whatever  _ this  _ was. The elder had said it was a gift, a blessing of justice. An ancient power given only to a chosen few. He didn’t feel like it was a blessing. It felt more like a curse. He sighed, lowering his hands and dropping down to the floor in defeat. He didn’t know what to do. He had no idea what to say. No explanation. He fixed his gaze on the floor, unable to keep look at his mentor, not when he was staring at him like he was monster. 

 

He heard Achilles approach, his eyes still fixed on the floor then suddenly he was staring at Achilles shoes.He felt a hand rest on his shoulder. “Connor.” His voice was softer, with less uncertainty. Connor watched the angry red flames waver and settle, no longer searching to burn but content and to his surprise they were a dark comforting blue. Achilles sighed “This would not be the first time I have seen this.” 

 

Connor looked up to Achilles in disbelief. “What?” 

 

Achilles gave a small smile of reassurance, barely noticeable but there. “Your father had the same…. _ gift.” _ Achilles seemed to struggle with a word that would fit. Though it would seem they both could agree that this didn’t seem like a gift. 

 

“He did?” Connor was shocked at the revelation. He hadn’t known his father except for what little he had seen and so far that had been disastrous. His thoughts drifting to the Boston Massacre. He shook his head, disbanding the images and returning his gaze to Achilles.

 

“Yes.” Achilles spoke. “He appears to have figured out how to control it, use it to his will.” 

 

That didn’t exactly make Connor feel better but at least he knows it can be controlled and that he isn’t the only one. Though his father would be the last person he wished to see at the moment. Not after what happened in Boston. But he does want to learn to control it. “You can learn control as well.” Achilles continued. “This power has abilities that can help you in your missions. All you need do is learn control and hone it like any other skill you will learn.”

  
Connor nodded in understanding. He sighed, looking down at his hands and watching the blue flames flickers softly like a candle in a corridor, taunted by a light breeze. He closed his eyes and thought about the feeling of being human. The feeling of his skin under the sun, imagining the cool waters in the harbor lapping at his scorched skin, cooling it. A noise of approval came from Achilles causing Connor to open his eye. His hands were his, the callused skin and scarred knuckles. He looked up at Achilles, a smile across his face. “That’s a start.” Achilles patted him on the shoulder before turning away to head back up the stairs, calling down to him to come up for supper. But Connor was too absorbed in the fact that he had controlled this  _ gift.  _ He inspected his hands, taking note of the palm he had sliced open in his frustration. He stared at it quizzically for a long time. Where he expected a bloody wound was nothing but freshly healed skin. He stared at the fading scar that ran the length of his palm.  _ Well that is useful. _ He thought to himself.


End file.
